


In the Midst of Rain

by jawsandbones



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped McCree, M/M, Talon!Hanzo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: The green cyborg has been a thorn in Talon's side. It haunts the steps of one of its top agents, Hanzo. Plans are made to collect the cyborg, dismantle it for scraps. They find Jesse McCree instead. It is decided he will make an excellent Talon agent, an informant. Hanzo will break him first. Widowmaker follows the hat through her scope, the red around his shoulders making for a very visible target. Breathe in. Breathe out. He possesses a cybernetic hand, one he uses as a brace as he leaps over a roadway block, Hanzo in fast pursuit. His other hand holds a revolver, one he is beginning to aim at Hanzo. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the rifle rock, the gentle recoil. See the bullet pierce flesh, rending through wrist, the revolver dropping from his grasp.Hanzo takes advantage of his stumbling, his shock, whipping his bow around to strike at unsteady feet, knocking him to the ground. He instantly moves to straddle him, bow pressing against the man’s throat. The hat has fallen, drifting over pavement. The man grits his teeth, presses his only working hand against the bow. “Hello darlin’,” he says with a strained smile, “aren’t you a handsome sight?”





	1. Ace of Pentacles

“You hurt only yourself with your stumbling,” it tells him softly. He is propped up against a wall, and cold metal is at his neck. His bow is shattered. His arrows, lost. It seems that perhaps the cyborg will finally kill him this night. Still, there is laughter behind his barred teeth, amusement in those furrowed brows.

“Go on then,” Hanzo goads him. There it is. The slightest tremble that runs through the blade. The cyborg has been a thorn in Talon’s side. Agent after agent, felled by its hand. And yet. There is always hesitation when it faces Hanzo. Never a killing blow. It evades, runs, threatens and beats down but never kills. Even with the blade at his neck, he does not strike. All Hanzo needs do is stall.

“You were meant for more than this,” the cyborg says, the voice of a man vibrating with omnic overtones. Stray strands of hair clings to the sweat on his face, and his lungs burn with the effort of the fight. Talon agents and Overwatch agents alike lie side by side, at peace in their deaths. There is no difference between the two, united despite their separate uniforms.

“You were meant to die long ago,” Hanzo tells him. The smallest of chuckles, the cyborg holds the blade steady.

“More than you realize.” Hanzo looks at the green glow in the cyborg’s mask, trying to glean something from his words. A human he could read. Humans were easy, stumbling in their feeling. Here, he must rely on the echo of sadness in his words, the wistful longing that drips from its tone. Perhaps recalling how it became mutilated so. Why would someone do something like that to their body willingly? Hanzo can’t understand it.

“Why do you not strike?” Hanzo asks, leaning forward, the blade biting into his skin. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to press, enough to make the threat. The tremble again, the blade being pulled away by the slightest touch. “You have not spared the others, so why spare me?”

“I am waiting,” it says. For back up, same as Hanzo. Was this cyborg under orders to leave Hanzo alive? To capture him? There’s that laughter in his throat again, as if Hanzo would ever give Overwatch Talon information. He had been the secret keeper of the Shimada clan, and once the clan had been taken under Talon’s umbrella, he guarded new secrets with equal fervor. They could not break him. Better to kill him.

There. Just over the shoulder. A dot of red. The cyborg would not kill him this day. Hanzo sneers at it, mocking it, distracting it as he sits up and draws the dagger from his belt. “I am as well,” Hanzo says with a roar, swinging his hand, aiming for the cyborg’s thigh. It quickly dodges, the blade finally away from his throat, moving to the left. Moving into the Widowmaker’s sight. The shot rings out and the bullet buries itself into the cyborg’s shoulder.

Hanzo barely registers the cry of pain from the cyborg as he rolls forward, moving quickly, out of its reach. Widowmaker covers him, keeping the cyborg at bay. The recon visor is lowered, the rifle resting comfortably in her grip. The cyborg looks in her direction and it almost feels as though it is staring her right in the eyes. “Tch,” she says under her breath, squeezing the trigger.

The cyborg leaps, a flash of green, its enhancements moving it to a speed the likes of which a human had never accomplished. She tracks it effortlessly. A shot, just there, bringing it back into focus. Another, one it dodges only barely, climbing the side of a building. It leaps, disappearing over the edge. “Tch,” that noise of annoyance again, louder this time, the anger coiling under her ribs. An insect. One that begs to be squashed.

She lowers the rifle, the recon visor retreating. Amélie does not enjoy the sight of prey slipping from her grasp. She gives Hanzo only the barest of glances as he passes her, taking one last look over the devastation. The streets are ruined, bullet holes riddling the walls, small explosions breaking the pavement. It would be costly to fix. A burden that Talon does not have to bear. More costly is Overwatch’s interference. The insect’s interference.

Her eyes narrow, following the shadows in the distance. Overwatch agents, here to retrieve their cyborg no doubt. It would require repair after the damage she caused it. There is no need to linger, and she turns, following Hanzo into the aircraft. She hooks her rifle into the case, strapping herself into the seat across from him. Her fingers tap the edges of the seat impatiently. The aircraft whirrs into life, lights flickering on as it takes off from the rooftop.

“It grows bold in your failure,” she tells him. Amélie does not mince words. Hanzo gives her none in return, only a scathing glare. She smiles as she watches the anger roll through him. She knows she isn’t wrong. There have been countless operations spoiled by Overwatch and its lapdogs. It operates like Talon now, in the shadows, hiding from the U.N.’s scrutiny. Hanzo’s operations have been ruined most often by the cyborg. It haunts him now, with that green glow. She knows that Hanzo has won more than his fair share of the battles, driving the cyborg away. It is still a failure. The cyborg didn’t die in those false victories.

A discussion needed to be had. A concentrated strike team, for the sole purpose of eliminating this insect. Amélie could lead it. She would win. The Widowmaker would not fail. A true victory. Hanzo glances up at her, as if sensing her thoughts, hands clenching into fists over his knees. He would fight her for this. He would lose. His past failures have shown his weakness, and she would hold that over him.

There is anger burning in his bones, a boiling rage that threatens to spill over. Instead, Hanzo rubs the space between his brows, breathing deeply, pulling everything back into himself. He would need to think about the debriefing, the report. A price on the cyborg’s life is imminent. The strike team floats in Hanzo’s head as well as Amélie’s. He would need to convince them he could succeed where he has failed so many other times.

He tilts his head back, feeling the rumble of the plane, and closes his eyes. He could request the Widowmaker’s assistance. Surely that would appease any need for oversight. It would put her scrutiny to rest as well. Hanzo has no reluctance, no qualms with killing the cyborg. They would not see him tremble.

When the plane touches down at Talon headquarters, there are three men waiting for them. The first, a clipboard in his hands, stands at the front. The two behind him hold guns, not paper, dressed in the Talon uniform. Luc wrinkles his nose at the state of Hanzo. Face and knuckles bloodied, the side of his uniform torn, lacking his bow and communicator. He jots down the things that needs to be replaced. Hanzo and Widowmaker take their place in front of their handler.

“You are free for the night. Prepare your reports. At 08:00 you are to report to room 267B for a round-table discussion about these… disappointing operations,” Luc says. Ah, there it is. The price has been set. Hanzo and Widowmaker exchange a short glance. Who would lead the strike team? “Your bow will be replaced. I will have it, and anything else you might need, sent to your room tomorrow. Dismissed.”

Hanzo walks behind Amélie in the corridor, his feet having memorized the path to his room. She walks without care, the rifle safe in her arms, her stride confident. He considers asking for her aid. Would she accept being under his command? She had before. Even if she took charge, all he would want is the killing blow. Strike the mask from the cyborg’s face, tear it limb from limb, and watch as sparks fly when he dismantles it.

She reaches her room first, punching in the code for her door. She smirks at him when he passes. He presses the buttons on his keypad, putting in his code with practiced ease. His room is neat but bare, empty save for a few trinkets brought from Hanamura. Shimada castle was simply another base of operations for Talon. He did not consider it home any longer.

Blood circles the drain of the shower. Most of it, not his own. A small cut on the side of his temple, bleeding more than it was worth. A few small burns on his side. A nick on his throat, one could almost mistake it for a cut made while shaving. He rubs at it, looking at it under the fluorescent glow of the bathroom lights.

He pulls a needle from one of the drawers, filled with yellow biotics. He presses it to a vein on his arm, pushing into skin. He depresses it, and he can see it run through his veins. He almost mourns the loss of the cut on his neck. He would have worn it like a badge of honor, until he could give a cut of a different sort to the cyborg.

In her room, Amélie scrolls through her tablet. Her armor is discarded, and she sits comfortably on her bed, rifle by her side. She scrolls through news headlines, stopping at anything that stands out. Bodies in the street. Whispers of a reformed Overwatch. A laughing blue blur that prowls the streets of London. “Tch.” She throws the tablet to the side. Still, her fingers linger on its edge, ready to pull it back. She purses her lips, frowning, threading fingers through her hair. After a moment, the tablet is once again in her lap.

Instead of looking at the article, she begins her report. Begins to type out her proposal for the round-table. She chews on her lips as her fingers fly, detailing the objects of the strike team. Use their mole in Overwatch. Find where the cyborg will strike next. Strike first. Capture and detain. Question. Examine the cyborg’s model, try to sway it to Talon’s side. Otherwise, dismantle for scraps. She lists the operatives she would like with her. The cursor blinks on the screen as her fingers halt to a hover, a finger over the ‘h’.

In the morning, Hanzo dresses in a suit. He wears no tie, choosing a more casual edge. Still, the buckle is shining silver, and the cut of his jacket is sleek. He pulls back his hair, greying at the edges, and wraps it neatly in a bun. The jacket hides the tattoo which runs the length of his arm. He runs a hand over his beard, neatly trimmed and he can find no fault in his appearance. He makes his way to the conference room, and finds Amélie already waiting.

Her tablet is in her hands, and she wears a form fitting black dress, with heels to match. Her hair tied back as always, and her eyes narrow when he enters. Most often they would be debriefed in their armor, their uniform, fresh from the battle. They wear a different uniform here. She has come prepared for a fight as well. Not of their usual caliber, but one of words. He takes his place beside her, folding his hands together, keeping them on the table. She clicks the tablet closed the moment he sits.

Luc is next to enter, a black folder under his arm. He clears his throat as he sits at the table across from them, and opens the folder. He takes his glasses from his coat pocket, sniffing as he adjusts them on his face. He coughs again as he shuffles through papers, until he finally slides one towards them. They are created with the cyborg’s profile, all of Talon’s information on this particular target.

Luc then leans over, unseating the phone’s handle from its cradle. He then punches in a few numbers, and sets it to speakerphone. There are no voices on the other end, just the static of existence. Who knows who may be listening? “The cyborg must be dealt with,” Luc begins, leaning back in his chair after tapping the paper. “Both of you have come into contact with him.”

Amélie sets her tablet on the table. “ _Oui_ , and I wish to crush the insect once and for all,” she says evenly, eyes moving from Luc, to the phone, to Hanzo. “I have outlined a request for a strike team, using the information from inside Overwatch. Myself, and select agents,” another glance at Hanzo, “will retrieve the target. See if it is useful for Talon.”

Luc taps his fingers against his knuckles. “Forward your request to the proper channels.” A few small clicks and away it goes. Hanzo leans forward in his chair. He is still unsure whether or not Amélie has included him in the team. The static on the phone intensifies.

“Request granted.” The voice is muddled, unclear, and the phone clicks off right after. Luc sighs.

“Mission details will be sent to you when they have been formalized. Dismissed.” Hanzo catches up to Amélie in the hallway, a hand on her elbow.

“I am coming with you,” he says. Her lip curls downwards, and she wrenches her arm away from him as she continues to walk. He almost doesn’t hear it.

“ _Oui_ ,” she says over her shoulder, without breaking her stride.

Amélie’s knees hurt. She has been kneeling in the dirt for hours. She wears a pair of old overalls, her back coated in sweat, muddy gloves on her hands and a sunhat on her head. She works at the earth, spade in hand, pulling the weeds from her garden. It has been untended while she has been away. Three days since their last encounter with the cyborg and she finally has the time to properly care for it.

There are footprints not her own in the dirt. Her eyes narrow as she looks over them, mentally looking for the culprit. Talon allowed them their small pleasures. The garden was hers. That another could simply walk through it was unacceptable. She wipes away the footprint with her hand. She hears a polite cough behind her, and she rises to her feet, taking off her gloves.

“For you,” the nameless agent says as it passes her the folder. She opens it and smiles at the header.

Hanzo stands in the practice range, firing arrow after arrow, burying them one on top of the other. His arm burns with the effort of having been there longer than he should have, but he barely feels the pain now. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk_. He does not miss. He lowers the bow as he takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back, working out the kinks in his neck. His tattoo aches. He whirls when he hears the door open behind him. Without comment, he is presented with a folder. Mission details. He scans the page quickly. He has only a few hours to prepare. They’ll be flying out soon.

It is quiet on the plane, and so he keeps his hands folded on his lap and his eyes closed. He focuses, wiping away any thought and instead centers himself on their goal. Capture the cyborg. A chance to best the mechanical beast. He would smile when he won. Widowmaker is just as quiet beside him, but her silence is born of glee rather than contemplation.

There are three other agents with him. Nameless, just like the one who had given them their folders. A lackey of Talon. Dime a dozen. Soldiers that needed no names, only needed to perform their function. They would do. The plane lands a distance away from their target, and Widowmaker quickly rappels into place. Hanzo would move with the other three.

She looks over the city, the darkened streets, lit only by a few lamps. The recon visor descends. She is scanning, always looking, and finds the shadows she is searching for. Overwatch agents, moving a shipment of weapons. “North, under the bridge,” she says while she holds down the communicator. She watches as Hanzo and the others move into position. There are only a few from Overwatch here. This team will be more than sufficient. She counts fifteen down below. Talon fires first, into an exposed back, dropping the first of their enemies to the ground.

Hanzo fires shots cleanly. Arrows sink themselves into soft flesh, burying into muscle, piercing vein and organ. They expand when they land, shrapnel tearing through fragile insides. If they were not dead when the arrow landed, they would be soon enough. It is a void when he fights. There is only himself, and the target. The string of the bow sings. The arrow whistles through the air. Everything is slowed, seen through a tunnel. This is where he belongs.

Amélie feels her pulse race. There is a smile at her lips, the barest hint of it, recon visor pulled down low. Breathe in. Breathe out. Squeeze the trigger on the last vestiges of air. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the rifle rock in her arms, the recoil a satisfying feel for when the bullet hits. They fall without a sound, bullet tearing through bone and brain. Adjust, find the next one. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Their team works methodically around them. Precisely ordered, they are backing Overwatch into a corner. Where is the cyborg? There is no eerie green glow illuminated on the darkened walls, no flash of metal when an agent falls. Hanzo spies their commander in the back, working around Talon, the most effective of the Overwatch agents here. The man looks so ridiculous, that the laughter bubbles up at the back of Hanzo’s throat.

Amélie realizes it at the same time Hanzo does. “Tch,” she says, before pressing against the communicator in her ear. “ _L’insecte vert n’est pas ici._ They are commanded by another.” Her voice crackles in Hanzo’s ear as he uses his bow to trip an agent, firing an arrow quickly into his chest. “Do we kill him?” He expects Luc’s reply to be yes – why would they ever spare one of the known Overwatch members? Instead, he hears a different voice.

“Capture him. Bring him in.” A grating voice, low and dangerous. The wisps of something inhuman on the edges. Even over the static of the communicator, the effect is haunting, chilling. Reaper. Hanzo narrows his eyes, feels the arrow in his hands. A special kind, he rolls it between his fingers before placing it against the bow. When he fires it, it breaks off into multiple different pieces, sharp and biting, scattering and ripping its way through agents. Talon and the Widowmaker take care of the rest.

She follows the hat through her scope, the red around his shoulders making for a very visible target. Breathe in. Breathe out. He possesses a cybernetic hand, one he uses as a brace as he leaps over a roadway block, Hanzo in fast pursuit. His other hand holds a revolver, one he is beginning to aim at Hanzo. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the rifle rock, the gentle recoil. See the bullet pierce flesh, rending through wrist, the revolver dropping from his grasp.

Hanzo takes advantage of his stumbling, his shock, whipping his bow around to strike at unsteady feet, knocking him to the ground. He instantly moves to straddle him, bow pressing against the man’s throat. The hat has fallen, drifting over pavement. The man grits his teeth, presses his only working hand against the bow. “Hello darlin’,” he says with a strained smile, “aren’t you a handsome sight?” Hanzo pulls back one arm, a hand he clenches into a fist, one he buries into the man’s face. All resistance stops.

Hanzo leans back, pressing at the communicator. “Target ready for retrieval.” He stands over the man, his bow tight in his grasp. He looks at the hat, flapping on the ground, being tossed by the wind. He purses his lips, then bends, and picks it up. He retrieves the revolver as well. An impressive weapon, it carries a sizeable weight, an even feel as it rests in his hands.

Talon agents flank him on either side, picking up the man, searching him for weapons, binding his hands and feet. Only the most minor of attention is placed on the hole in the man’s wrist. Something to be dealt with later. He is hauled to the aircraft, strapped and buckled into the seat, Hanzo and Widowmaker standing guard.

“ _Imbécile_ ,” Amélie chuckles. “He has not changed since I last saw him. Jesse McCree.” She sets her rifle on the hook, everything in its proper place. Hanzo narrows his eyes and looks back towards this McCree. A bruise is beginning to blossom on his cheek, and Hanzo clenches and unclenches his fist in response.

“He is not our target. We should have killed him,” Hanzo says curtly. Amélie chuckles again.

“Reaper would not allow us to kill such a close friend of his,” she says. Hanzo balks. Surely she’s joking. He looks back at the man slumped in the seat, his ridiculous belt buckle shining. The scruff on his face is wild and untamed, same as the mop on his head. It will be easy. They will break this man. Then Hanzo would kill him.


	2. Three of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tears off his shirt. Fingers press against skin, against ink, at the dragon on his arm. One half of a whole. He’s trying not to be who he was.

There’s something in the way grass feels under his feet. The sunlight streams through branch and leaf, flickering with the wind. It’s quiet, in a loud way, with the birds chattering, leaves rustling, soft voices in the distance. Their time is most often spent underground, in the base, with florescent lights, breathing stale circulated air. The breeze is a luxury, the sun a kindness. Two matching cups sit upon a small glass patio table, white and clinical, filled with gently steaming amber liquid. Tea, from Hanamura, which Hanzo brewed himself. Amélie has an elbow on the table, resting her cheek against her fist.

The true base is under the dirt. The grass, the trees, the gardens – all merely a front. The estate is a castle, built of stone and sweat, drenched in vine and moss. It is decorated ornately, neatly, with unassuming servants wandering the halls. Then there is the sunless underground, with those blinding lights and white halls, filled with agents and commanders, a single prisoner. They’ve been grounded since they brought him in.

It’s not the worst place to wait. It’s home, or at least, Talon tells them it is. Hanzo has been reading the reports. Overwatch is buzzing with activity, sightings in every corner of the world. Searching for their missing agent no doubt. Talon has pulled back for now. Not worth risking any information slipping out. So they sit, they drink and they lie in wait.

“Someone has been using my garden as a shortcut,” Amélie says, “if I find out who, I will shoot them.” Hanzo chuckles, wrapping a hand around the cup. It’s warm against cooler skin, an inanimate handshake, and he brings the cup to his lips. He feels the warmth travel down his throat, settling in his belly. Amélie’s cup is half empty, and her finger is circling the rim. She is unable to be still, unable to settle. They both itch, ache, with the need for a weapon in their grasp.

Amélie adjusts her sunglasses as she sighs, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. Her hair is loosely braided, resting over her shoulder, in a plain shirt and slacks. She is barefoot as well. They both need the grass, the dirt, the feeling of something real beneath their feet. She holds herself stiff with all others, in front of all others. He does as well. The two of them, drinking tea underneath an oak tree, can finally relax.

“Have you seen him?” She asks, turning to face Hanzo directly. Ah, yes, him. Their single prisoner. Jesse McCree. Formerly of the Deadlock gang, formerly of Blackwatch, currently of Overwatch. Imprisoned by Talon. In white cells with florescent lights. Hanzo shakes his head.

“I have not. Nor have I heard anything either,” he tells her.

“ _Moi aussi_ ,” she murmurs as she leans forward once again, wrapping her hands around the cup. Her fingertips gently tap against the ceramic. She purses her lips and though he cannot see her eyes behind those dark sunglasses, he can see her begin to frown. He can only guess at her thoughts. Amélie Lacroix was only barely associated with Overwatch, through her husband Gérard. Widowmaker is more tied to the organization, responsible for the death of Gérard and countless agents. Her body count rivaled his.

Amélie slowly removes her sunglasses, folding them neatly, placing them down. They land with small clicks against the glass of the table. She rubs the space between her brows, as if trying to work away the growing frown. She does not succeed. “He was a child when they recruited him. _Mon dieu_ ,” she says. Widowmaker never speaks of a time before Talon. So Hanzo listens quietly while Amélie speaks.

She looks distant, as though she is far away from the cold underground, the warmer estate, from Talon’s clutches, from him. She stares at her sunglasses as though they held the answers to every question she could ever possibly ask. The frown deepens into a scowl. “We were all such children,” she says as the scowl recedes into impossible sadness. “Now we are all much older, maybe not in number, but in the bone.” He knows. He feels it too.

Amélie goes quiet. Widowmaker reaches for the sunglasses, slipping them back onto her face. She finishes her tea. They move into an easy silence as Hanzo finishes his own tea, watching the stream trickle by them, gurgling over rock and mud. The warmth is fading, growing colder by the second as they think of a time before Talon. Of their time with Talon. The breeze turns hostile, the sunlight glaring and the grass irritating. He wants his bow in his hand, an arrow notched, and a target in his sights. She breaks the silence, breaks his thoughts.

“Put in a request for interrogation. McCree was trained by Reyes himself. They will not be able to break him,” she says.

“What is the point? I do not think this McCree is necessary. If they cannot break him then he will die. As it should be,” Hanzo says. A request of his would not be overlooked lightly, especially in a matter such as this and Widowmaker knows it. The people he’s broken, the members of rival gangs he’s interrogated, the answers he’s gotten without needing to ask the question… his resume as head of the Shimada clan runs extensive.

“McCree was Blackwatch. The cyborg reeks of his ilk. There is something Reaper is not telling us, something he has been ordered not to say, I am guessing. Perhaps McCree will be more willing to impart information. If we want answers, we must seek them ourselves,” Amélie says. Reaper is the shadow in the corridor, the black stain upon the window, the eyes that watch in the dead of night. He is also one of _them_. They are the trio of Talon’s most well-known, most effective agents. Reaper does not join them for tea today although he has before. Countless times.

“If he will not talk to the interrogators, what makes you think he will talk to me?” Amélie smiles. She thinks of telling him about McCree’s misguided sense of justice. How when she first met the man, both of them young in their bones, he had wanted such good for the world. He believed he could see the potential for it in every man. How having a conversation was such an experience for him. How he immersed himself in it fully. He kept the hat. Perhaps he has kept this justice as well.

She knows he is Blackwatch, first and foremost. As though every conversation was a gift, he knew how to manipulate it so you inadvertently revealed the most information. He would be looking to do that here. Torture and endless questioning would only shut his mouth. Sitting down with Hanzo could pry open those jaws. He would seek to manipulate Hanzo, to steal Talon’s secrets. She knows that Hanzo would never bend to his tricks. Hanzo, with tricks of his own, might be able to pry some answers from the gunslinger. But what she knows, she does not tell Hanzo.

“Put in the request,” she says, still smiling. She taps her empty cup before she stands. “Thank you, Hanzo, for the tea.” One last adjustment of the glasses before she is walking away, hands clasped behind her back. Strands of hair have slipped from the braid, flowing in the wind behind her. Bare feet touch solid earth and for a moment she looks just like any other woman. Hanzo remains, her words rolling in his mind. She was right. There was no reason not to seek answers for themselves.

They may operate under Talon, but they are by no means Talon itself. The organization will not spill its secrets so easily, even to its trio. If they did know more about this cyborg, why would they keep it from Hanzo and Widowmaker? What reason could they have?

McCree would have no such restrictions, reservations. Would they turn down his request out of fear from what the gunslinger could tell him? If they are worried about that, he would need an extra push to get it approved. A push in the form of Reaper. If Reaper did approve, then Amélie would be correct in her guess that Reaper was ordered not to tell them.

He sits at that glass table, grass under his feet, sun overhead, streaming through branch and leaf. He grips the cup hard enough that the handle breaks. The request will be easy enough to construct. It is harder, remembering what he left behind. When he was in charge. When all secrets were his to keep. He was _good_ , as the head of the clan. They had no rival because of _him_.

Then came the whispers. Smaller gangs disappearing, members appearing again under different colors. Larger gangs wiped out, bodies in the street. Whole families slaughtered as Talon dismantled the criminal empire to make it theirs. He tells himself that he made the right choice, that it was better than the alternative. He lived and his men lived. Wasn’t that enough? Still, he is restless.

Hanzo sees the same restlessness in Widowmaker, in Reaper. He sees it in the way she stands stiff, spine straight, hands fixed at her side when she visits Gérard’s grave. She says she doesn’t miss him. That he got what he deserved. She only misses what she thought he stood for. He sees it in the way Reaper’s form shifts, shadows unending, a ghost in their halls. In the way he cannot abide failure, abide death. He’ll hold the folder of an agent slain in action for hours on end, his burden to bear, and another faceless cog that only Reaper will remember. If they cannot blame themselves, they blame Talon.

He carries the cups, broken handle in his pocket, back inside with him. One he places in the sink. The other, in the trash. He heads downwards, to his room, punching in his key code. His bow rests by his bed, untouched, unused, in the week since they took down McCree. He sits at his desk, tablet in front of him, and begins to type. When finished, he sends it through the proper channels. Then he tugs the phone from his pocket.

 **Hanzo** [03-03]: _Request sent._

 **Widowmaker** [03-02]: _Bien. Merci. Good luck._

He’s always liked Amélie’s seamless blend of English and French. She holds onto it, spattering her sentences, reminding Talon she knows who she is. His room is dark, lit by the solitary lamp by his bed. He tears off his shirt. Fingers press against skin, against ink, at the dragon on his arm. One half of a whole. He’s trying not to be who he was. Restless, restless, restless.

Hanzo receives the notification two days later. His request has been personally approved by Reaper. _Whatever you need. It’s in your hands now_. He laughs when he sees it, blinking on his tablet. Amélie was right. Talon was keeping secrets, secrets Reaper was daring him to find out. That and they had been unsuccessful in breaking the cowboy. He skims the approval, finds that he’s been given full access. He’s officially McCree’s handler. Anything he needed, wanted, he would get as long as McCree gave information.

His fingers tap against the screen. Security System. Cells. Cameras. It blinks into life, that white room, their single prisoner sitting on the bed. He’s sitting on the edge, looking at the floor, an elbow on his knee. His hair is long and wild, the beard the same. He’s wearing a black jumpsuit, a stain upon the endless white. The bed is still neatly made, as if McCree couldn’t bear to break it. Hanzo goes about his day, tablet in his hands, quietly watching. McCree doesn’t move.

A day passes, and then another. McCree stays rooted to the spot. He doesn’t touch the food that’s been brought to him. When Hanzo begins to descend to the holding cells, he does so in the middle of the night. He doubts that McCree realizes that it’s night. Stuck under that florescent light, time would blur together. Away from wind, away from sun, away from grass. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, a tray in his hands. He meets an agent at every turn, opening doors for him after pausing to check his identification.

There’s a glass door that bars his entrance. Bars McCree’s escape. It slides open at Hanzo’s command. He places the tray in the center of the room, on the floor, the bag beside it. He sits down on one side, crossing his legs, reaching for one of the plates upon it. Steak, medium rare, with garlic potatoes and a side of Caesar salad. There are two glasses on the tray, a bottle of whiskey between them.

McCree rubs his face, brushes hair back, and tucks it behind his ear. He slowly slides down, across from Hanzo, crossing his legs. “Well now, ain’t this a surprise,” he says, looking up at Hanzo. There are healing bruises on his face, a cut upon his lip. The barest of biotics given, enough to heal, not enough to erase. They haven’t given him his arm back. There’s an ugly red circle on his other wrist, evidence of Widow’s bullet.

“I’m assuming it ain’t poisoned?” McCree asks as he reaches for the other plate, settling it in his lap, clumsily poking at it with his fork.

“Is that why you have not eaten what’s been given to you?” Hanzo asks, watching as McCree fully stabs into the steak. He gives Hanzo a grin. Hanzo places his plate back on the tray and gestures to McCree. He hands over his plate without a word. Hanzo works quickly, cutting the meat into smaller pieces, before handing it back.

“Mmm,” he says between bites, “Sure have missed this.” They finish quietly, McCree eating faster than Hanzo, before he leans back against the bed with a contented sigh, closing his eyes. “Is that why they sent you? Cause I wasn’t eating? Must say it’s a nice change of pace.” Hanzo watches as he slowly turns his wrist, clenching his hand into a fist and back out again.

Hanzo extends his hand, “your wrist.” McCree’s eyebrows shoot upwards and he leans forward as he slowly lowers his hand into Hanzo’s. Hanzo quickly flips his palm upwards, his thumbs biting into his wrist, the pads of his hand, massaging them carefully. McCree eases into it, shoulders relaxing. It’s barely healed and it will scar even now. They were sloppy, caring too much about the pain. He can almost hear Amélie’s voice in his head. _Tch_.

His hands slip from McCree’s, into the bag. He pulls out a needle and swiftly finds a vein before McCree can protest. He makes a noise of surprise, flinching when the needle bites into his skin. That stops as the biotics flood his system, seeking out any imperfection and correcting it. He places the now emptied needle on the tray, watching as he looks at his wrist. “That feels mighty fine. Since you’re fixin’ me up, I take it you ain’t here to kill me.”

“I am not. I wished to speak with you,” Hanzo tells him. McCree nods.

“Is this where I tell you what I want in return for telling you shit?”

“What would you want?”

“My hat. My damn arm. The sarape.” Hanzo snorts with amusement.

“Most would bargain for their freedom,” Hanzo says. McCree gives that toothy grin as he leans against the bed once again, propping his arm upon the mattress.

“Yeah, well, I figure I gotta start small. Work my way up,” McCree says. He rubs at his chin thoughtfully. “Figured you for just a fighter. Why’re you the one questioning me now?”

“Does it matter?”

“Suppose not,” McCree shrugs. “Reckon you want to ask me something specific. Why else’d you be here?” Hanzo’s expression darkens even as McCree’s lights up. If he asked about the cyborg now, he would know the end goal. Something to taunt Hanzo with. His eyes narrow as he looks at the cowboy. If he answered, he could end it right here and now.

“For your hat, your arm, and your cloak,” Hanzo says.

“ _Sarape_. And yeah, what’d you wanna know?”

“Tell me about the cyborg.” McCree’s eyes widen. His mouth gapes and the laughter rumbles up from deep in his belly. He shakes with it, slapping his hand against his knee. He wipes away the tears that appear, the laughter not fading.

“Well, _Hanzo_ , his name is Genji.”


	3. Knight of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bulletin board with photos. Amélie smiling into a camera, hands clasped behind her back (skin that isn’t tinted blue, black hair, happy). Hanzo standing at the front of the Shimada clan, sword in hand (longer hair, pride in his eyes, a weapon he’d never touch again). A blurry photo of a blonde haired man, his eyes closed, laying in someone’s bed (gone but not forgotten).

Hanzo runs the length of the track, again and again. His legs ache from the strain, his feet complain with each strike against earth. The lungs burn in his chest, his throat stinging as he tries to force down air. His heartbeat pounds in his skull. Sweat beads at his brow, his chest, his back, palms warm and clammy. He’s a mess. He thinks he can outrun it. He thinks he can leave it all behind. Genji, Genji, Genji. Blood on the wood, on the sword, on his face, and _what have I done, what have I done_?

Tears in his eyes, lip split, nose bleeding. _Hanzo_?

He stops running. He heaves with heavy gasps, his hands clenching into fists. He doubles over, holding his sides, staring at the dirt that swims beneath him. When he straightens, he wipes the sweat from his brow with his arm, beginning to pace in a circle. He knew that Overwatch knew them. He knew that Overwatch knew his name, knew his operation, and knew his history. Things that should stay buried in the past, McCree threatened to unearth.

Hanzo feels his hands tremble.

“You haven’t been to his cell in three days.” Hanzo whirls, having not felt the presence at his back. No footsteps, no sound, no breathing. Reaper is calm, quiet, his words even. “He said something that rattled you. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“It is nothing,” Hanzo says.

“You only run like this when something’s bothering you.” Reaper states facts from behind a white mask, a black hood. It’s a warm day, warmer than most, but Reaper is still wearing a thick hoodie, a turtleneck underneath. There are gloves on his hands, boots on his feet. All black, always. Most would find it odd. Find it strange. Hanzo finds he is used to it now. He knows what’s under the mask. He likes the mask better.

“I approved because I thought you could handle it. Don’t make me regret my decision,” Reaper warns him. Hanzo can’t stop the twitch of a frown. He’s never liked anyone doubting his abilities. He knows that Reaper doesn’t doubt though, he only pushes. He puts one hand on Hanzo’s shoulder and squeezes.

“I know you can do it,” Reaper tells him quietly. “Don’t let him play you. If you need anything, you only have to ask.” On the battlefield, Reaper is a predator. He laughs, he goads, and he presses his shotguns against skulls and doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. He is the enemy. He is the enemy because he needs to be, because that’s what everyone already thinks he is. Away from the battlefield, Hanzo sees only a commander, worried for his men.

“Why didn’t you interrogate him? I saw the logs. You haven’t even been to his cell,” Hanzo says. Reaper’s hand slowly slips from his shoulder.

“Some wounds heal slower than others.” Reaper is shadows. Formless. Unending. He wears the mask to hide his shape. He wears the mask to keep his shape. Reminded of these old wounds, Hanzo can see the sweater shift, as if curling into itself, trying to hide the hurt. Reaper leaves as softly as he came. Whatever man he was before, it lurks underneath, struggling to make itself known.

Amélie is sitting in the common room, on the couch, her knees folded up beside her. The three of them are perhaps the only ones to use the common room. The other agents keep their distance. It has white walls like the rest of the underground, a softly humming refrigerator, a coffee machine and table. There are two couches, a clock that ticks louder than it should. A bulletin board with photos. Amélie smiling into a camera, hands clasped behind her back (skin that isn’t tinted blue, black hair, happy). Hanzo standing at the front of the Shimada clan, sword in hand (longer hair, pride in his eyes, a weapon he’d never touch again). A blurry photo of a blonde haired man, his eyes closed, laying in someone’s bed (gone but not forgotten).

Amélie’s in her pajamas, bare feet and black shorts, a shirt that sits loosely. She has a book her hands, coffee on the table. She barely glances up when Hanzo enters. “You look like shit,” she says, her eyes falling back to her book, turning to the next page. Hanzo gives a small smile, shakes his head. He takes one of the water bottles from the fridge, opens it as he leans against the counter. Amélie pays him no mind. “You smell like shit too,” she says, turning another page. He finishes his water on the way back to his room.

He turns the heat of the shower as high as it will go. Hanzo lets the water run over him, turning skin red, steam and fog collecting in the bathroom. He runs hands through his hair, over his face, keeping them pressed over his eyes. He had locked it away for so long. One word, one name, that’s all it took to have it come flooding back. It was a name, it was only a name.

He dresses neatly, he dresses simply, and he stares at himself in the mirror as he ties his hair back. He’s been reduced to such a small thing. He commands no one, nothing, not even himself. Talon did that. Talon is making the world a better place. Overwatch is making the world a better place. He wonders which organization is succeeding. It can’t be both. The world is still too cracked, too broken.

For the first time in far too long, he heads down to the holding cells. McCree is exactly where he left him, still sitting cross-legged on the floor. His arms are crossed as well, his eyes closed. When the door opens, he cracks open an eye. “Well now. I have been eating so I don’t have the faintest why you’re here,” McCree tells him.

“Stand up,” Hanzo says. McCree downright leaps to his feet, bracing himself with his one hand against the bed. “Come with me.” The man grins, half covered by the fur on his face. His hair is long and wild, his beard (if one could call it that) was untamed. Hanzo examines him with a sour glance, making a mental note to shave him next time. Hanzo gestures at the guard, and the door slips open.

“Well now. Aren’t’cha worried I’ll make a break for it?” Hanzo barks out a short and abrupt laugh at McCree’s comment and keeps on walking. McCree hurries after him, running a hand through his hair. Hanzo’s shoes click against the floor, while McCree’s bare feet slap against it. He knows that McCree is examining everything – from the ceiling to the specks of dirt between cement blocks. All he’ll see is white walls, white light, a blinding void. There’s no information to be gleaned from these halls.

McCree rubs at ruined flesh by what used to be his elbow. His arm aches even though it doesn’t exist anymore. He can almost see it, like a ghost, can feel himself flexing porcelain fingers. It’s always skeletal, bone, when he thinks of it. It doesn’t fit with the rest of him, dark skin, dark hair, darker blood that beats beneath. He clenches this nonexistent hand into a fist. He follows the archer, this thorn, and his confident sway.

When had Talon not been so linked with Overwatch? The rise of one saw the rise of the other, two forces in opposition. It was inevitable they clash. How many times had McCree strewn the battlefields, finding operatives with _arrows_ stuck inside of them? Arrows, of all the things. He supposes he shouldn’t judge. He missed the tell-tale clank of his spurs, the hat on his head. The sarape that smelled of home and better things.

The Archer and the Widowmaker – one shot, one kill. Overwatch had learned to fear high corners, perches and ledges of death. Genji had found a way to get close. Scaling walls and terraces, quiet footsteps, a hand on his sword. How many times had they almost taken the Archer? Genji couldn’t face the Reaper alone. There was familiarity in those shotguns, a mockery of someone McCree once knew.

Hanzo stops suddenly, finger tapping out a code to a door. When they enter, McCree almost laughs. A training room. A large mat in the center, an empty space for brawling. He was no brawler. His empty fist could hit only shadows in his mind. Hanzo stands in the very center, one arm tucked behind his back. His other hand extends, his hand opening, beckoning forward.

“Now darlin’,” McCree says, shaking his head, “I don’t know what you’re expecting…”

“I am expecting you to fight. Come.” That hand, beckoning once again. McCree shrugs his shoulders and steps onto the mat. He throws the first punch. Hanzo easily sways out of its way.

“Be serious,” Hanzo says. So McCree steps forward, punches again. And again. And again. He’s a swinging mad man, desperate to land a hit. Hanzo is stepping sideways, backwards, ducking underneath his fist. He’s looking at McCree with a bored expression. He keeps that one arm behind his back.

When he moves, McCree barely sees him. Hanzo moves left, feet propelling forward, striking McCree hard in the gut. It’s followed up with a quick chop to his neck, sending him even more off balance. It’s enough for Hanzo to get a good grip and fully flip McCree onto his back, and that damned hand is still fisted against Hanzo’s spine. McCree stares up at the light, hair falling about him like a halo, trying to catch his breath.

“Damn, darlin’.”

Amélie sits at her desk, legs crossed, one of them swinging casually. She’s scrolling through her tablet, her other hand wrapped around the spoon of her cereal. She eats quickly enough, she hates soggy cereal. She’s still in her pajamas (she won’t change unless she has to) comfortable and relaxed. She gives her phone only the smallest of glances when it buzzes.

 **Unknown** [0?-0?]: _Do you have him?_

 **Unknown** [0?-0?]: _Is he safe?_

 **Unknown** [0?-0?]: _Please at least tell me if he’s alive._

 **Unknown** [0?-0?]: _Amélie. Love._

 **Unknown** [0?-0?]: _Why risk giving me this number if you’re not even going to talk to me?_

A spoonful of cereal. She keeps the spoon in her mouth while she reads, then deletes the messages. Her teeth click against the metal in her mouth and she rolls her eyes when she throws the phone back down on the table. She taps quickly against the tablet, scrolling through the many cameras in the base. She stops at one and the spoon nearly falls out of her mouth from the sudden outburst of laughter.

McCree on his stomach, his stump slapping against the mat, his other arm twisted behind his back. It’s stuck in Hanzo’s hold, a knee in McCree’s spine and the cowboy’s legs are flapping uselessly. If there was sound, Amélie knows she would hear yelping. Two doors down, in the darkness of his own room, Reaper’s mask sits on his desk. The same camera view is on his own tablet. He runs a hand down his face. He trained him better than this. This… was embarrassing.

“I told you I ain’t no brawler,” McCree says as Hanzo helps him to his feet.

“As someone who is routinely out in the field, you should be proficient at hand to hand combat,” Hanzo tells him.

“What? So I won’t be caught by some evil organization?”

“Exactly,” Hanzo says, shaking his head. “If this is the best Overwatch has to offer, then it is… disappointing.”

“Naw, I ain’t the best. I’m barely even Overwatch,” McCree tells him. “Genji. Genji’s the best.” Hanzo’s eyes narrow, look suspiciously at the gunslinger. His expression betrays nothing, and the feeling behind those words… even if they’re not, McCree believes it to be true.

“Tell me about him,” Hanzo says. He tries not to betray his own feelings in those words.

“Where’s my sarape?” McCree grins.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoy <3  
> You can always find me at [my tumblr/](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


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